UNN
by Jamaica-tan
Summary: Welcome to the United Nations News Network, the world's best, first, only and worst international news channel! Can the channel handle co-presenters that hate each other? Can Ludwig contol his insane employees? FrUk and other pairings.
1. 2006 has been the worst year

Title: UNN  
Author/Artist: Jamaica-tan  
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Francis/Arthur as main, and various others  
Rating: R to be safe.  
Genre: Comedy/Romance/Drama  
Warnings: Swearing, buckets of bad language, Francis.

Note: Near Christmas I put on one of my favourite DVDs, _Shakespeare ReTold's Much Ado about Nothing_. As I watched I began to realise what a great idea it was for a FrUk story. It's pretty much ballooned out of control, and I've made a lot of changes, but I hope to deliver an entertaining AU story that keeps everyone in character.

Introduction – 2006 has been the worst year in the history of ever.

Casting an always critical eye upon his image in the mirror, Arthur Kirkland had to conclude that he looked pretty damn good this evening. Crisply ironed shirt, handsome tie, a dark blazer, and matching slacks. The only problem was that the dress code of the restaurant was very similar to the type of clothing he wore at work, where his date also worked, and saw him nearly every day in these type of clothes. Pondering on what to do for a few moments, he decided to switch and wear instead a painfully casual (by his standards anyway) blazer with his outfit. His polished shoes were by the door, and he had everything he needed in his pockets, and, satisfied with his appearance, he turned to leave his bedroom. However, the bottle of his favourite cologne atop his chest of draws caught his eye, and he thought he may as well dab a little on, he so rarely went on dates that a little scent wouldn't hurt, even if the date was with _him_. Arthur also decided to neaten his bed sheets for the fourth, fifth, or maybe even twelfth time. It was not like he was hoping or even wanting…well you know. He just liked having a neat bed.

The restaurant was decadently, _horribly_ overpriced, but since his date had asked him out and made the booking, he could damn well pay for the evening. But Arthur had to admit grudgingly that it was a very nice place, with intimate seating areas with a sophisticated atmosphere, only it was so dark he was struggling to read the sodding wine list by the candle light. Despite his dateless life, Arthur knew there were only two reasons why such a place would be so dark with a slightly pretentious piano player in the corner. The first is shitty food, the second, a nice place to grope your date, and unfortunately, he knew his date well enough to know what was most likely. Arthur went back to studying his menu with gusto, in revenge he decided to order as many expensive items as possible, and if that pervert thought he could be so smooth as to put the moves on him while he was eating, he'd ram that bastard's fork somewhere very uncomfortable.

'_Jesus, £40 for the cheapest wine! Hmmm…best get the £100 bottle. Well, bottles._

…_What was taking that wanker so long?'_

Nearly 40 years, okay minutes, later, Arthur had memorized the wine list, subtly smashed the breadsticks into a fine dust, glared away any approaching waiter, checked his phone for messages at least several dozen times, and in the process had never begun to feel so big a fool in his entire life.

Just when he was on the brink of storming out and maybe setting the poncy place on fire on the way out in revenge, he saw two more fucking waiters making a beeline for his table, this time one was holding a champagne bucket with a large freshly opened bottle inside, the other with one sparkling glass of champagne. Instead of screaming at them to go forth and multiply, he could only look at them in slightly pathetic disbelief as they lay the items on his table.

One of the immaculately dressed young men looked uncomfortable as he spoke:

"The gentleman says he is sorry and that he hopes there are no hard feelings. He has paid for your dinner."

Oh.

Well…oh.

_Oh._

After a few moments of feeling his heart sinking shamefully further into his shoes, he looked up to the uncomfortable waiters.

"Right," He said, "Call me a cab sharpish, bring me another bottle of your most expensive champagne to go, and you might as well take the glass away because I won't be needing it."

Halfway home, Arthur ordered the driver to pull over to a greasy high street kebab shop. The car had barely paused at the kerb when he staggered out, clutching one of the nearly empty bottles like it was his baby.

"I won' be long," He slurred to the cabbie, "You wan' anyfin, 's on me mate."

"Erm…chips? And a bottle of coke?"

"GOOD MAN!" He roared as he managed to zigzag to the shop, scaring several yobs away in the process. "Everybody should luv' chips, they are spiffing. But no' wiv' cheese…"

Really, he reflected in the cab a few minutes later, slumped against the cab door and juggling the titan task of drinking from the bottle and trying to eat an overflowing kebab with one hand, champagne and kebabs were fandabbydoozy, there should be more high class kebab restaurants. Kebabs were ace, not pretentious fucking French bastards that chased you for a year than ditched you without so much as a fucking grovelling text message.

Nope, he wasn't upset.

He wasn't even crying, he must have misaimed his kebab and smeared chilli sauce on his face.

But as he tried to wipe his face free of chilli sauce, (definitely not tears, not at all), he silently decided he'd never let that Francis Bonnefoy near him ever again.

The next morning, after reading the well overdue text message, Arthur threw his phone at the wall.

A/N: When I went to university up in the Midlands, I was amazed to find that my Northern friends loved cheesy chips. I tell you, melty cheese on chips! Weirdos.


	2. Erection Day

Note: Just a reminder that this story, particularly the FrUK storyline, is based off '_Shakespeare ReTold's Much Ado about Nothing'_ so I will be using some lines/scenes from that film. If I forget to credit any other references please remind me.

["dialogue"] is words over intercom or microphone.

**EDIT:** Because I'm an idiot that never should upload a story when tired, I forgot to thank my betas Redundant Goddess and koholint. You guys rawk :3

* * *

Part 1 - Erection Day

20th September, 2010.

"_On this day in 1990, UNN (__United Nations News Network), the world's most controversial news channel, was born. It started as a small experimental satellite channel by two eccentric billionaires, and after moving to a more widespread service, it is now one of the most popular and despised news channels in the world. Everybody and their dog knows about this news channel, but my esteemed editor seemed to think the 20__th__ anniversary of the channel, which was started and still runs in our fair city of London, was worth a mention in our paper._

_For those who've been living in a hole for the past 20 years I will enlighten you about this strange channel's origins: in 1989 two best friends, a German industrial mogul Valamir __Beilschmidt and an Italian, Romulus Vargas (whose money is rumoured to come from shady business interests), decided to start a news channel whose sole aim was to be truly international, to report events from across the globe without any national or political ties to cause bias. As they were both living in London at the time, they decided it would make sense to set up here, and to gather a team of news and media specialists from across the world to reinforce the message of neutrality._

_This 'international' news and staff policy is still in force, and I will concede that the dozens of news awards won globally mean that they must be doing something right, but here I can reveal my suspicions that there's something rotten in the state of Denmark._

_The station is still owned by Beilschmidt/Vargas, but nowadays they rarely step over the threshold of their company; Valamir having gone an extended sabbatical/holiday (3 years so far and counting), while Romulus seems content to drift around the world, photographed with supermodels clinging to him. Very professional. However, there is a third owner - a Chinese businessman, Wang Yao, who is trying to instil some order into the company on the business side, and the day-to-day running is left to Ludwig Beilschmidt, the younger of Valamir's grandsons. His elder brother Gilbert runs and hosts '_The Awesome Hour' _(currently on holiday), a show so stupid I won't go into detail. Vargas's grandsons, Lovino and Feliciano, run the Public Relations department, the success of which swings wildly between ditzy incompetence and eye-popping fury at any question asked._

_The most popular programme on the channel is the early evening news, which for the past four years has been co-presented by Arthur Kirkland, the sole British face of the channel, who tries desperately to hide his public-schoolboy personality and pretend he's merely of the middle-class, and the venerable television news veteran Sebastiano De Luca, who looks like he's long past retirement age and is now skidding towards the grave. _

_Art film geeks will be interested to know that the director of the programme is Ivan Braginsky, the man who a few years ago directed the award-winning _'The Comedy of the Tragedy of the Post-Soviet Human Condition' _on a three-week trip back to his homeland of Russia. Despite making several other successful, disturbing, and vague films, he's stayed at the channel. Rumours abound that he's a mini-Stalin that rules the place._

_Before De Luca joined the team, Kirkland's co-presenter for nearly two years was Francis Bonnefoy, who always had a vague air of non-discriminatory sexual harassment about him – in other words, your typical Frenchman. Needless to say there are various online campaigns to bring him back, as if there was not enough eye-candy at the station, which brings me to my main problem. _

_I know I'm not a supermodel, but in the news industry you can be successful and average looking; but at UNN the job specification seems to be foreign, young and attractive. Many industry insiders have also heard shocking things about the in-fighting at the channel. Where normally media types would happily stab their friend in the back for a few minutes in power, at UNN the biggest concern seems to be keeping track of who is sleeping with who each day, with occasional holiday office orgies -"_

"Right, I'm not reading any more, what a load of old crap," Arthur tossed the newspaper aside. "I should burn that later - and what exactly crawled up that hack's arse to make him so bitter about the channel?"

"He's just jealous that he doesn't work here," Alfred said around a mouthful of ice cream, slouched on the studio sofa next to Arthur, "You know everyone wants to be us!"

"Don't talk when you eat, Alfred, it's disgusting."

"Well you know it's true because he hasn't even mentioned me! Talk about lazy work! I'm super popular!" The American tossed the ice cream stick behind him, hitting an unlucky studio hand in the head.

Arthur was now rifling through his notes, "h you're in there all right - it's just not very flattering so I wouldn't read if I was you."

"Ah ha, sounds like you're jealous!" Alfred grabbed the newspaper from his friend's side. Arthur didn't stop him but watched with an eyebrow raised as Alfred read the article, smiling slightly when he began to turn red.

" 'IQ of a hamburger' ?"

"I told you, and don't do anything stupid because practically everyone here gets in the neck from this hack. He's nicest about Ivan but also called him Stalin... Ivan will find him in time."

"That's true," Alfred muttered, "Then there's that comment about Denmark."

" 'Something rotten in the state of Denmark,'? I don't think Nikolaj would be happy to read that; even if it's Shakespearean it still sounds like a jibe, and I don't know about you but I wouldn't want to anger a tall Norseman with a giant axe..." Arthur trailed off.

"Totally," Alfred agreed.

After a beat, Alfred suggested, "Maybe we should put him in front of that journalist's office then show him the piece."

"Good idea."

A pretty brown-haired woman with a headset and clipboard approached them. "You two have everything you need? Alfred, you'll need to move in a second, Mr De Luca is coming."

"Yeah yeah," The tall blond picked up the paper and stood, waving it tauntingly. "You seen this, Liz?"

"Nope," Elizaeveta's eyes were giving the studio a calculative sweep, searching for any imperfections. "I don't read those, but I've heard of what was written... though I can tell you I do know that the guy that wrote that got left with a big bill when Gilbert found his credit card and put it behind the bar at our last Christmas party."

"Well that explains a lot."

"Hurry up!"

"Okay okay!" Alfred finally moved to the other side of the studio to his seat.

Just then an elderly man with a walking stick approached the beige sofa.

"Evening Arthur," he said as he sat, quietly tucking his cane out of camera shot before adjusting his microphone, "I see you're all still fuming about that silly article; I haven't laughed so much in my life!"

"It's slander, that's what it is. Somebody should sue."

"You should know that suing in this industry is career suicide - just laugh it off and make sure Ludwig knows about the article so that the channel will never feed that rag of a paper any news ever again."

Arthur considered this while looking into the black camera lens, trying to fix his hair "Good point."

Elizaveta came back, fingers tapping nervously on her headset. "Okay guys, are you ready? We're starting in 30."

[#Inside the (SCR) Studio Control Room#]

["Liz, my throat is still sore I need another ice cream!"]

["Don't call me Liz, and if you took your cold medicine properly you would be better by now!"]

["But, Liz~"]

Ludwig had had enough and pressed the buttons for Liz and Alfred's earpieces, "Shut up Alfred, you yell too much and that's why your throat is still sore, so save your voice for your segment."

There was a strange childlike giggle beside Ludwig as Ivan's hands worked expertly on the switch board without his eyes leaving the screen. "Perhaps if he ate properly and left those disgusting burgers..."

"That's enough Ivan, and not a word from you, Alfred." Ludwig ignored the muttered

["Shut your face, Commie fatsicle,"] from the American's microphone to look at the two men that were actually on the cameras. "Arthur, stop playing with your hair, you look fine."

"Ten seconds everyone." One of the studio room producers, Toris, held the stopwatch. There was a rapid increase in noise and bustle as everyone in the room and studio rushed to check everything was perfect.

"Roll credits."

"Nine...

"Are the colours right?"

"Eight..."

"A little washed out, turn down the brightness a touch..."

"Seven..."

"Sound check?"

"Everything is correct."

"Six..."

["Green room and makeup, be ready for final touch-ups two minutes before guests cues,"] Kiku said over the tannoy.

"Five..." The room fell silent; only the director could speak now. Ivan's eyes remained fixed on the screen - for the next hour, this was his world.

"...camera two, centre is off by a degree... that's good. Arthur, fix your tie; everyone ready? Good...cue De Luca."

...26 minutes later...

"Thank you Eduard for that insightful report." Arthur turned from the monitor to face the camera with a small smile.

"Very insightful, who would have guessed that the environmental impact figures of computers could be so great?"

"Not I. However, later in the programme we will speak to representatives of both EnviroTech and Pineapple .co to hear both sides of this debate."

"For now, we...we-w-we..."

Arthur glanced away from the camera to see De Luca's face quickly draining of all colour to an ashen grey, and then clenched his left shoulder and fell off the couch.

For a moment Arthur stared disbelieving at the older man twitching on the floor before remembering they were still on air. He looked up, saw the crew frozen in shock and the glint of the camera lens, and saw red.

"What the hell do you lot think you're doing! Cut! Call an ambulance! Go to the weather!"

With that the camera quickly cut to a small room where a blond man was sat on a chair quietly eating a sandwich and reading a book in front of a blank screen. This continued for a few seconds before a blaring sound apparently erupted so suddenly from the young man's ear that he fell off his chair and out of sight of the camera.

"What-_what_? I'm on air? _Now_?" There was a scrabbling sound and the occasional flash of blond hair before the man stood, frantically fixing his tie and glasses while trying not to drop his remote for the screen. The screen lit up and promptly began to fast-forward through random graphics.

"Hello, good evening, I'm Matthew Williams and here is the weekend weather!"

.

18th September, morning.

Arthur only had to wait outside inconspicuously for a few minutes before Ludwig arrived, and together they made their way inside. While inside the lift, Arthur enquired after De Luca.

"Well... the good news is that he'll recover eventually, but he'll be under care for a very long time; he also said we should consider the heart attack as his retirement notice."

"Oh, that's terrible - he's not in one of those awful NHS hospitals is he?"

"No, he's at The Duke of Wellesley private clinic, the place with the therapeutic mood lighting."

"That's good," Arthur allowed for a respectful pause before getting to what he really wanted to know. "So this will mean that I will be presenting the programme solo, then?"

"Yes, well," Ludwig looked a little uncomfortable, "Only for two weeks, and then your new co-presenter will arrive."

Bollocks. Oh well, must soldier on. "Bringing someone in, or re-organizing the team?"

"Bringing someone in; however, he's not exactly new, as he has worked here before..."

"Oh I see; anyone I know?"

The lift pinged before the doors opened, and they made their way towards the meeting rooms.

"He's an excellent journalist; he's worked across the world and is very highly regarded in the international news community. He's also known for his charisma, which has made him very popular with viewers."

"That's nice, so who is he?"

Ludwig seemed very uncomfortable, but he put on a smile for Arthur; but then Arthur saw it. The slight facial tic; the tic that meant his boss was trying to cover extreme stress and put off impending disaster... now Arthur knew that in his professional life he managed to maintain various good links so it made no sense for Ludwig to be nervous, unless he was stupid enough to –

Arthur halted, colour draining from his face. "You haven't."

The smile quickly left, and the blond sighed, "Arthur –"

"You _wouldn't_."

"He's one of the best –"

"Don't give me that excuse, you know how I feel about that - that _French wino_! Withdraw the offer!"

"He's already signed the contract."

"Tear it up!"

"You know that isn't possible."

Fists clenched tightly, he had to resist the urge to punch Ludwig, but said instead, "Since you're so keen to sign people up, you should find yourself another co-presenter." With that he spun around and stormed off towards his office.

"Arthur –"

"Don't even bother!"

.

Late in the afternoon, Arthur was perfectly happy feeling sorry for himself on the sofa of one of the smaller empty studios, when he heard one of the doors open. He looked up and saw Ludwig approaching with his usual stoic expression and holding Arthur's favourite mug; and from the steam coming from it, it was probably a lovely cup of tea – a peace offering. Damn Ludwig.

"Thought no one would find me here," he muttered when Ludwig sat next to him, but accepted the offered mug of tea.

"One of the responsibilities of being the boss is always knowing where your employees are. It's so I know you're working, but sometimes I've woken up in the night because I just know that one of you has been thrown out of a seedy nightclub."

"Huh." Arthur sourly took a sip of the tea. It was perfect. _Damn_ Ludwig.

"Can't you just, I dunno, staple a blow-up doll to the sofa? No one would notice the difference."

"Arthur," the younger man sighed and rubbed his temples, "can't you be more professional about it? He's very popular and it would bring in more of the general female demographic."

"If more women are tuning in just to view that frog then I say we don't need those kind of idiots; and I am a bloody professional, because unlike him I'd hand in a proper notice when I wanted to leave, instead of jetting off to north Africa with a scribbled note left with Antonio!"

"That was unprofessional, but he's still very successful and newly available... if we didn't get him, he'd be hired by one of our rivals, and we can't afford that."

"Well, thanks, nice to know since he left we've been sinking into the mud."

"You know I don't mean that, but when you two were working together the ratings for the early evening news were at their peak; surely you know that you two had great chemistry."

"There was nothing between us!"

There was a weary sigh. "If you say nothing else after this conversation, I'll triple your personal allowance."

Arthur looked at him in surprise. "Really? No catches?" He immediately thought of Vash the Finances Manager: frugal, bad tempered, and rather trigger happy by the look of the loving framed photos of guns in his office. Ludwig was obviously thinking of Vash as well, by the way he clenched his jaw and straightened slightly. "For a year."

Jesus; this was a big deal.

"Okay," he said finally, "But if he ever comes onto me I'm going to maim him."

"Nothing above the neck, and no broken hands."

"Deal."

.

27th September.

"Your first day of your first real job, how are ya feelin'?"

"To be honest, I'm really nervous," Raivis fidgeted with the hem of his t-shirt for the sixth time since he arrived. "This place is so big!"

"At the end of the week you'll know it better than the back of your hand so like, don't worry – as a runner you'll be all over the place! Lemme see your shiny new ID!"

He handed it over, and Raivis was still finding it odd that Feliks was dressed in jeans and a (really fancy) t-shirt for work – mainly because in the week he'd known and lived with him, he'd only worn dresses and miniskirts.

"Kyaa, you look so young! Maybe you should keep your passport and EU card with you so people will know you're eighteen." Feliks snapped his chewing gum thoughtfully. "How was security clearance?"

"It went well, they all understood me, but that tall security man was terrifying!"

"Who, Berwald? Oh, he's just a giant teddy bear – just don't mess with his wife and he'll love you"

"Wife?"

"The short smiley one, Tino."

"Tino's his wife?" Raivis squeaked, "oh no, I'll get into trouble now, I called her 'sir'...!'"

"What? Tino's a guy too, thought that was obvious."

"But you said –"

"Berwald calls Tino his 'wife' even though they aren't dating yet... which they should so totally do."

"Oh."

"Anyways, as I'm officially your boss now, I'm taking you on your official tour, so let's go!"

Raivis had to hurry to keep up with Feliks's rapid stride.

"You remembered your notebook and pens?"

"Yes!"

"Good, never ever forget them; it's your Bible, your number one weapon to surviving this job! Anyways, you'll be working around the Studio areas so you'll need to know these places best."

They passed two men speaking in rapid Italian, one with a vice-like grip on a coffee mug.

"That's the Vargas brothers, Public Relations, and grandsons of one of the co-founders. Stay on their good side. Lovino's the one with the cup, always pissed off because he's always on his period; Felicano's the other one, nice but he's the dumbest boy you will ever meet. Remember that."

Raivis dutifully scribbled _'Vargas - do not annoy.'_

"As a runner you are a donkey for the rest of the team; all of you are expected to do whatever is asked of you, whether it's carrying – oh, that cute guy in a suit is Roderich Edelstein, lead Culture correspondent – all kinds of equipment, relay messages, fetch food and drinks, or even going across the city to pick up the boss's dry-cleaning – and all without complaining. Alright, main meeting room."

He pushed the double doors open where there was a large circular table with a few dozen chairs dominating the room, and a long table at the side.

"That other table is for food and drinks for breakfast and long meetings, which is usually like major disasters and really long reports that need updates every hour; by the way, you'll need to do nights every now and then when that happens," The blond spun and went back the way they came and pointed at a few other doors. "There are a few more meeting rooms here, but they prefer to use the big one, I dunno why, more room to hear themselves talk over each other. So yeah, this floor is meetings, the general offices and at the other end of the corridor is the office of the Executive Producer Ludwig Beilschmidt."

"He's Mr Beilschmidt's grandson?"

"The younger one yeah, he's okay but always really stressed. The other one is a total asshole, but he only likes picking on journalists and Elizaveta - one of the floor managers- so you'll fly under his radar."

More scribbling.

"Okay, floor above us is the offices of Mr Beilschmidt, Vargas and Yao, but don't expect to go up there much. Mr Yao is usually down here with us mere mortals and the last time Beilschmidt and Vargas were around I was rocking pastel colours, so that was a while ago! It's mostly their secretaries relaying messages and buying stuff on eBay up there now."

The next half hour was a blur. Downstairs from the offices was where all the studio-related things were, and below that was the IT floor where his half-brother Eduard worked, and below that was Marketing and Public Relations. Feliks walked and talked so fast, pointing out people and rooms and departments, that Raivis barely kept up, only half-listening as he wrote down as much as he could.

"And this is the most important place of all!" Feliks opened this new set of double doors with an extra flourish to reveal...

"The canteen?"

"Totally! You get all the best gossip here, as well as a really delicious low fat salad. Seriously though, all you have to do is listen, and you'll hear just about everything. Of course it's all confidential outside the building, but feel free to tell me everything. Right," Feliks tapped his chin. "Okay, the guy sleeping over there is one of the late news correspondents Heracles Karpusi, totally hot, and that's a fact.

Oh, and that one with the eyebrows is Arthur Kirkland, he always looks annoyed, but this time I hear it's because a guy he totally hates is coming back to work here. The two Asian guys next to him are Kiku Honda and Jun Lau, his producer and a tech correspondent. I dunno why those guys are sitting with someone so bitchy as Kirkland, ya know I think he wouldn't be so cranky if he waxed those monster eyebrows of his –"

"Um, Feliks?"

"Yeah?"

"W-what if I get lost, who can I ask?"

"Not a journalist, definitely not them, they are major assholes."

"Journalists... the ones in suits?"

"The accountants and business types wear suits too, avoid them as well; way way too stressed! Just ask anyone dressed like a normal person."

"Oh, okay."

"Oh yeah, with suit types don't talk to them unless they talk to you first; not because they are better than you, but that's how they usually get their power trips. I remember this one time this guy tried to get me fired because I insulted him, and I was like, 'How the hell did I insult him when all I said was his tie made him look ugly', so anyway..."

Despite himself, Raivis's attention eventually wandered away from Feliks's babbling, and he looked around the busy canteen. How did he get himself into this? This place was way too big, there were too many room codes and names to remember, he might screw up and destroy the building, or even worse, get fired...

Suddenly he noticed a man with ash-blond hair, imposing even though he was sitting alone by one of the windows eating his late breakfast. Somehow he wasn't sure if Feliks had mentioned him.

"Who is that?"

Feliks glanced where Raivis was looking and made a face. "That's Ivan, one of the programme directors, but you should really stay away from him."

"Why?"

"Psychopath, seriously." Feliks grabbed his arm and easily swung him round to lead him straight out. "Anyways, you should be fine here, your English is great so no one can give you crap about not understanding you. I'll take you downstairs and show you where they keep the camera equipment."

* * *

Yeah, Pineapple .co. I was trying to think of a fake computer company name and my mind went to Digimon Adventure.

* * *

Names: Sebastiano De Luca - Vatican City

Nikolaj - Denmark

* * *

I don't think anyone expected a sequel to this, but I hope you all enjoyed this so far!


	3. Pardon my Freudian Slip!

Note: Just a reminder that this story, particularly the FrUK storyline, is based off '_Shakespeare ReTold's Much Ado about Nothing'_ so I will be using some lines/scenes from that film. If I forget to credit any other references please remind me.

Note: ["dialogue"] is words over intercom or microphone.

* * *

Part Two - Pardon my Freudian Slip! I meant Election Day

1st of October.

3.30 am, time for Arthur to admit that there way was no way he could get a decent night's sleep now. He'd done everything as normal; brushed his teeth, put on his comfortable pyjamas, read a book for half an hour in bed, and then turned the lights off at a sensible time.

But instead of peacefully falling asleep, he had spent the past few hours glaring at his ceiling.

He would see Francis tomorrow. He was going to lose a night of precious beauty sleep because that bastard would be back in his territory in less than ten hours, oiling his way around the offices and studios, flirting with anyone who couldn't get away fast enough, and pretending that he had never stood Arthur up. But that was fine because Arthur had decided to wipe the incident from his mind, so Francis was just a French bastard. A French bastard oiling his way around the offices and studios flirting with anyone who couldn't get away fast enough and pretending that he had never stood Arthur up.

...

Fuck it.

A few minutes later Arthur was on his knees in his office rifling through the desk drawers. Eventually he gave a triumphant "Ah-ha!" when he found the slightly crumpled box of cigarettes, almost crying with joy when he opened it and found more than just a few in there. Hopefully they wouldn't be too stale; he honestly couldn't remember the last time he had bought these.

Soon he was settled comfortably in front of the television with a freshly lit cigarette and a rather large glass of scotch. He switched on the TV and spent a few minutes aimlessly flicking channels before he somehow ended up with a French news channel, on a pre-recorded interview with...

Sweet Lord why! That bastard was there pretending to interview some dim-witted blushing woman while obviously flirting with her. He hadn't changed at all, tucking the same stupid silky hair behind his ear with a dazzling smile while the woman's blush deepened as she gave a breathless reply. Motherfucker.

Arthur had to quickly remind himself that his TV was new and cost a lot of money, and that throwing the remote control at it wouldn't hurt that frog at all, so he just turned it off.

In the darkness he swore loudly and finished his drink before getting up for the bottle.

.

As soon as Francis Bonnefoy stepped out of his sleek car, he felt like he was coming home. A home of warmth and camaraderie with his friends, an understanding boss, and more than a few eager junior employees to seduce.

He was but a few steps away from the welcoming glass doors when he heard a familiar voice call his name, "Yo! Francis!"

The blonde turned and smiled when he saw who it was. "Gilbert, _mon ami_! How was your holiday?"

Gilbert shrugged lazily, and Francis put his arm around one of his best friend's shoulder. "Same old, Berlin's getting boring."

"Berlin, dull? You mean to say you've exhausted all the S&M and fetish clubs?"

"Even the really dirty ones, so next time I need to go somewhere dirtier and cheaper, somewhere that won't press charges."

"Always important."

"How does it feel to be back?" Gilbert sniffed slightly.

"Like I never left. If all goes well I'll never want to leave again."

"Fuckin' awesome, good to hear that cos it's not been the same since 'Tonio hooked up with that bitchy Italian."

"Little Lovino? But he's so cute!"

"A cute little pain in the ass! All he does is complain and eat and complain some more. I used to think that 'Tonio was sticking around for the kid's cash, but now I think he's just cock-whipped."

"That's a beautiful image, truly."

"Yeah I bet you like that, you horny old goat."

"What about you?"

The German's grin stuttered slightly, "What d'ya mean?"

"How are things, with you and..." Francis trailed off in a subtle gesture for Gilbert to fill in the blanks. Instead, Gilbert shrugged, almost aggressively.

"Their loss!"

Francis raised an elegant eyebrow. "Is that so? That is a shame."

"Yeah, anyways I'll catch up to you later. I'm gonna go get some decent coffee from that place round the corner; can't stand that hamster's piss they serve upstairs."

Gilbert started to turn before he seemed to remember something.

"Oh yeah, what are you gonna do about Arthur?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Whatever you did, he acted like he had sand in his vagina for nearly six months after you left."

Francis shrugged. "I didn't do anything to him, but a little of the Bonnefoy magic wouldn't hurt."

"It'd hurt _you_; think he'll rip your guts out!"

"As if I'm scared of that stuffy Englishman."

"Yeah well, I know you're lying through your teeth. Whatever you did really pissed him off."

.

Arthur's temper (worn down by a few hours of scotch-induced sleep) was not helped by coming into the meeting room to see that_ French bastard_ holding court as if he had never left. Nearly everyone was hanging on to his word as if it were gospel while he went on about some stupid adventure. "We were surrounded, pirates pointing guns at us and screaming orders in Somali – "

"Shame they didn't shoot," Arthur muttered under his breath as he took his seat. Unfortunately the French bastard heard him and turned towards him with a dazzling smile.

"Arthur! You're still here!" Fucking snail-eating bastard; Arthur looked up from the files he was pulling out of his briefcase, trying not to grit his teeth. "Of course, why would I leave?"

"Oh of course you would stay - somewhere so safe and comfortable..."

"Are you trying to imply something? If so it's flown over my silly English head."

At that moment Ivan and Kiku walked in and the room fell immediately silent. Whether this was due to respect for their producer or fear of Ivan will be left for the reader to decide.

Kiku bowed his head politely and took his seat, "Good morning everyone, shall we begin?"

.

"Hey Gilbert!"

Gilbert spun on his heel to look at Nikolaj, one of the security guards at the desk.

"If you want me to compliment your minimum wage ass in those tight uniform trousers, I'll do it later when I'm spanking it in the men's room, but right now I'm in a fuckin' hurry, so what is it?"

Nikolaj glared at him for second, but then smiled widely, "Nothing. Have a nice day."

"Damn right, and I'll see you later," Gilbert strode over to the lifts and pressed the call button. He sipped his coffee idly as the doors opened and he walked in, pressing the button for his floor. His meeting wasn't until two, but he always came in early to hang out and annoy people, and he missed it while he was away. Today would be a good day.

But when the doors began to close, he heard an all-too-familiar voice. "Hold the doors please!"

Gilbert swore and pressed the button to close the doors quickly, but a small pair of hands pushed through and pushed the doors apart, revealing Elizaveta with Roderich behind her. There was an awkward pause while they looked at each other before she sighed and walked into the lift. Roderich followed her and said nothing. Elizaveta said nothing. Even Gilbert said nothing. It was possibly the most awkward lift journey in history.

The silence was only broken by the doors opening. Elizaveta walked straight out, but Roderich stayed for moment before leaving.

"Gilbert, did you know that there's a pigeon on your head?"

It took a moment for Gilbert's brain to process that, before he reached up and instead of patting his head, his hand met feathers and an angry coo. Fuck, not again – Gilbird would pissed off later. Oh well.

"Oh, hi pigeon, wanna come watch me drink beer and download porn in my office?"

"_Coo~."_

"Awesome."

.

"So I have some big news," was Alfred's greeting as he grabbed the chair next to Arthur, turning it around to sit on it backwards with his arms resting on the back.

"Mmm-hmm," Arthur didn't pause from reading his gossip magazine; one had to keep up with current events.

"Actually it's pretty epic, monumental, fate-of-the-world type stuff, so pretty important."

"Mmm-hmm." So that pop star is having an affair with that actor; how shocking, he had been so sure that the pop star was a lesbian...

"I'm getting married."

"Mmm - wait, what?" The British man finally looked up, "What did you just say?"

"I'm getting married!"

"Really?"

"Yup!"

"Oh! That is excellent news old man! Who, may I ask, is the lucky lady?"

Just as Alfred was about to answer, a girl with pale blonde hair walked by, dumping a report on the nearby programme papers without breaking her stride as she crossed the room and disappeared down a nearby corridor.

"Her," Alfred said, almost dreamily.

"Who?"

"Her, Natalya."

"...Natalya?"

"Yeah, ain't she cute?"

Arthur had to resist the urge to rub his temples. "Do you mean the same Natalya that's just walked past without acknowledging you, who is also the same woman you've never spoken to before?"

"Nope, we talked and it was... amazing," Alfred actually sighed in a romantic wistful way.

Arthur suspected that either someone had slipped something in Alfred's coffee or the American had finally gone insane; they were the only logical conclusions.

He caved and decided to ask what brought on this insanity. "Go on then, how did you suddenly decide she was meant for you?"

(_****Magical shower of sparkles and wavy lines as we go back in time~~...****_)

On the night of the Television News and Journalism Awards, Alfred F. Jones was feeling pretty damn good. Who the hell wouldn't, when you're the Sports Journalist of the Year – wouldn't you feel amazing? So, fuelled with his amazingness, his new statue in one hand, his work ID in the other and enough whisky running through his body to kill a racehorse, he decided to celebrate. And by celebrate, he meant photocopying his butt and sending it to all the losers so they'd know who was best.

Night security was just that skinny boy Leif watching a DVD at the front desk and ignoring the security screens, so he was easy to get past, but stumbling around the offices looking for the copy room keys was a bit harder. But it didn't matter anymore when he picked the lock - it was all in place. Copier on, ID on the scanner (because emailing a random butt picture would just be dumb), his pants were down, and he was trying to figure out how the hell his belt ended up around his boxers when the door suddenly opened.

There was a blue and white spinning blob in the spinning doorway, and as it came nearer the spinning blob slowly melted into a slightly blurry feminine figure.

"Yo," Alfred managed, somehow managing a grin. The blur went past him and went to the shelves, like it was looking for something. A moment later, it picked up something and put it in what was either its purse or pocket, and finally turned to face him.

"What are you doing here?" Definitely a girl, with a sexy Soviet-spy accent!

"Well..." Why was he here? Oh yeah, "well, see I won this nifty award saying I'm the best, so I'm gonna send the haters a picture of my ass so they can kiss it!"

"I see."

"Did ya see it?"

"See what?"

"My crowning moment of awesome!" Geeze, was this chick dumb?

"Of?"

"When I won! It was on national TV!"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"I worked late."

The room was beginning to wobble again, and so was the figure who was reaching for something on the floor before holding it up. "These are yours."

Alfred leaned in closer and tried to focus on her hand. "Hey, my glasses! How did you get those!"

"You dropped them, you fool."

He clumsily grabbed them, and when he put them on his world lit up. The bright room was now clearer but still shaky, though the girl seemed very still, very real and _beautiful_. She was wearing a dark blue coat and wore a ribbon the same colour in her long pale hair. Her skin was pale, her eyes were the colour of cobalt, and she looked unimpressed.

After a few seconds Alfred realised he was staring. "Uh, thanks."

She raised an eyebrow and nodded formally, "good night." The girl - or woman, she looked like she was about his age - turned on her heel and walked out of the room. At the doorway she paused and looked over her shoulder.

"Your plan would fail; photocopier glass is now built to shatter under human weight. It would be bad for the channel's reputation for an award winning journalist of ours to go to the Accident and Emergency Department on the night of his victory because of his own idiocy. If I lose my job because of you I will slice your skin off and then rub in salt and vinegar to watch you scream with agony."

She walked away.

To Alfred's credit he heard what she said, but his mind was more on her pretty face and the venom in her calm, cute voice.

He was in love.

A few minutes later, slightly more sober, he looked down and realised his pants were on the floor.

He had just met the love of his life with his pants round his ankles.

Huh.

Oh well.

He really should get dressed and go home. He was beginning to sober up a bit and realised the next time they'd meet he should be fully dressed. Maybe he'd leave himself a memo for that.

He pulled up his pants, but he couldn't wipe the stupid smile from his face.

"What a woman!"

_****Magical shower of sparkles and wavy lines as we return to the present~...****)_

Now, Arthur was definitely feeling a headache come on. "So... have you spoken to her since? That was nearly a month ago."

"I didn't see her for nearly two weeks! I was starting to think that I imagined her, but then the other day I went into the wrong part of the building and there she was working in the Translation Department! Did you know we had one of those?"

"Yes I did; did you think the foreign reports magically appeared on our desks?"

"Nah, I just never thought about it."

"Right, so have you spoken to her?"

"Yeah."

"And has she fallen into your arms?"

"Not yet, but I'm working on it."

"Does she know your name?"

"Of course."

"Did you tell her?"

"Didn't need to, everyone knows me!"

"But did she actually say she knew your name?"

"Well," Alfred actually looked like he was considering it for a moment, "Well no, but everyone knows who I am!"

Arthur sighed; he had forgotten that in the world of Alfred F. Jones, everyone had a secret shrine dedicated to worshipping the American.

"Right... Alfred, before you book the church, there's something you need to know."

"What's that?"

"First of all, I don't know her too well but the rumours are that Natalya is insane. Not in the cute, accidentally stabbing you way, but as in 'future homicidal maniac',"

"Aw, you're just overreacting!"

"I'm not, and she's also –"

Some obnoxious rap tune started playing, and Alfred pulled out his phone, "Hi Liz!"

"Alfred!" Arthur heard Elizaveta's voice shoot through the phone earpiece, "where are you, you have that interview in five minutes!"

"I do?" Alfred looked at his watch, "Aw, crap you're right!" He shot up and ran off towards the hallway with a quick, "See ya later!"

Sometimes having a friend as arrogant yet friendly as Alfred was a real hassle, but he seemed delusional and very keen on her, so he might as well warn him.

Arthur took out his mobile phone and sent a text to Alfred of what he was trying to tell him earlier. At least Alfred couldn't accuse him of not trying...

_Arthur to Alfred:_

_She's Ivan's little sister!_

.

[Studio Control Room]

"Why Ludwig, what a pleasant surprise." Ivan's friendly smile had an almost eerie, dangerous sheen in the dark room, "I hope you aren't checking on me again."

"No, just want to make sure tonight runs smoothly." Ludwig took a seat near the back.

"Why don't you sit closer to me?"

"If anything happens I want to be close to the door in case I need to go out there and bash their heads together."

[Studio floor]

"Just want to make sure there's no shine in the lights," Anaïs said as she carefully ran the lightly dusted powder brush across Francis's forehead, her hand on his shoulder to make sure he wouldn't move away. When she seemed satisfied she smiled and straightened slightly. "There, perfect." Arthur was sat next to Francis on the sofa and had seen the frog's eyes shamelessly run over the makeup artist's body in her tight clothes, and now the bastard winked at her.

"I know you, you were new here before I left, and I must say you're even more beautiful than I remember."

The blonde girl's smile grew and she blushed prettily, "and you're just as charming as I remember. Unlike so many here, you know how to make a girl feel special."

"But you _are_ special! You make me look good and your face makes me feel very good." Oh, surely that was harassment, but the girl only giggled.

"_Quand on se fait draguer, on se sent toujours spécial."_

"_Ça illumine la journée"_

"_Oui."_ She giggled again and Francis smiled as he lightly stroked her arm that was still on his shoulder. They spoke a few more words before she left, with Francis eyeing her pert bottom.

Well, Anaïs had been doing Arthur's makeup for years and seemed perfectly nice; it was only now that he knew she was a French speaking tart. Really, flirting with Francis indicated very low standards. To look casual he flicked through the reports and tried not to think about how much he wanted a cigarette.

"Up to your old tricks again, I see."

Francis looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. "'Old tricks'? I don't know what you mean; it costs nothing to be friendly."

"What you call friendly is known as sexual harassment in the real world."

"Ah, I forget that some people know nothing of flirting."

"I know plenty about flirting, thank you, but I've experienced your kind of flirtation and it's like radiation poisoning."

"Fits your poison tongue."

["Is everything okay?"] Ludwig's voice came over the studio intercom.

"Fine!" Both spoke at the same time, then glanced at each other when they realised what they'd done.

When he looked away, Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek to remind himself not to punch the bastard. He vaguely heard Elizaveta call out two minutes until air. He took a deep breath.

Francis laughed slightly, and when he looked at him the Frenchman was looking away and running a hand through his golden hair, "It's been a while since I last did this, I hope you'll be gentle with me."

"Not scared are you?"

"Well, you almost killed the last guy with your sour face."

"Yes, my sour face and not the fact that everything De Luca ate was smothered in butter."

"Whatever you say."

"Hmph." Arthur checked his hair then ran his hand around his shirt collar to make sure nothing was out of place.

Francis picked up his papers to check they were all in order, and asked casually, "can I speak honestly with you?"

"I don't know, can you?"

"It's about what happened before with us –"

"'Us'? What, oh, that. Forgotten all about it. And there was no 'us' anyway –"

" – I feel terrible about it, a crude text message is not really my way at all –"

" – brief moment of weakness and delusion, don't know what came over me –"

" – and I know you must have felt humiliated –"

" – dating a self-deluded egomaniac –"

" – but things happened and I just had to follow my career – "

" – in fact I would say you must have slipped something in my tea –"

" – so I won't hold it against you if you feel wounded, cheri –"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" Arthur didn't expect that come out so loudly; neither did Francis by the way he jumped and hissed at him to shut up, but it was too late.

["What the hell is going on?"] There was a slight scraping noise. ["Do I need to come down there?"]

"No."

"Everything's fine."

There was a slight lull, then Arthur muttered, "by the way, there's something on your face."

"Oh course there is, what is it, spinach? Really Arthur, that is such an old trick."

"Well I was only trying to help."

"Five..." Elizaveta called out by the cameras. She wasn't really paying attention to the conversation because they were professionals, once they were on air all personal conversations would stop.

"You expect me to believe that? You only want to embarrass me."

"Four..."

"You expect me to be so petty?"

"Three..."

"I know you love watching others suffer, it's the only time you look gleeful."

"Two..."

"I don't know what you mean; I never enjoyed other people's suffering."

"One..."

"Tell me Arthur, why you have to act like such a difficult – "

["Cue Bonnefoy."]

" – little prick."

[Studio Control Room]

" – little prick."

There was a slight silence while the British man smiled almost gleefully at the camera, "And I'm Arthur Kirkland! Tonight we'll be looking into the event of the latest Nuclear Council's summit." Francis obviously noticed his on screen faux-pas and winced slightly, but then smiled and carried on with his script.

All activity in the room stopped, and everyone turned to look at the men in charge to see their reaction. Ivan seemed to be pouting slightly, which meant he was a step away from stabbing someone, and Ludwig pinched the bridge of his nose with his eyes screwed shut. This was bad.

"I think," Ivan said softly, "we're going to have a problem."

Sand in vagina line is from South Park.

Names:

Leif - Iceland

Anaïs - Belgium

Translations:

"_Quand on se fait draguer, on se sent toujours spécial_/when someone flirts with you, you always feel special"

"_Ça illumine la journée_/it brightens up your day"


End file.
